Twenty Short Stories About Life in Sunnydale
by The Power of The Book
Summary: A series of mostly late season ficlets based on titles from Season Two, featuring any and all characters in a variety of vignettes and lost scenes. BS, WT, XA, GJ, ect.
1. Chapter 1

A/N: This is a series of mostly later-season ficlets based on the titles of episodes in Season Two. Titles may be out of sequence, depending on how inspired I am. Please enjoy, and please review, good, bad, or just to tell me I missed the point.

This one is set between Seasons 6-7.

* * *

"When She Was Bad" 

_Blessed are the meek, for they shall inherit the Earth._

It wasn't in Judaism, but she has always held the words close to her heart, skimming along the edges of crowds, trying to stay close to Xander and Jesse, trying to avoid Cordelia and her crew, make herself invisible. _I am meek, I am meek, but one day I shall hold the power…_

And she had. Held the power, that is. She hadn't inherited the Earth, but she'd come pretty close to destroying it. All of it.

Now she ruminates over the day's lesson, not allowed to take notes, only to think about what she had been taught.

Now she touches the English earth, feeling the connection take her to a fissure in the Sea of Japan, to a well-trodden sidewalk in Sydney, to the rainforests of Paraguay. She tentatively reaches out to Sunnydale, to a small plot of recently-turned earth, but shies away from the darkness rooted underneath it.

Now she feels the awesome power of what is inside her, recognizes it for all its terrible and wonderful potential, and trembles in awe and terror, humbled at last.

Now she knows what it is to be meek, not just playing the part.

Blessed, she's not entirely sure.


	2. Some Assembly Required

"Some Assembly Required"

Set during the events of the Season Seven episode - "First Date"

* * *

It had been a long, hard piece of work in getting this magnificent creation, but by the sweat on his brow, it was worth it. The treasure was hidden within this box, and oh, how he'd suffered to get it.

Slicing open the masking tape that bound the cardboard box, Andrew eagerly fumbled with the stiff styofoam cushions, wrestling with the box until the styrofoam gave an unholy _squeech!_ as it slid against the cardboard and gently dumped the prize into his lap.

A microwave. His very own piece of modern technology, although technically, it really wasn't his, as it was bought with Willow's money, and would be shared everyone in the house. This must have been how the pioneers felt when the first telegraph lines were being set up - scratch that, this must have been how the holographic Doctor felt when his portable holo-emitter first allowed him to escape the confines of sickbay and the holodeck.

Andrew took a damp rag and sponged an area on the counter clean, clearing it of all manner of sticky breakfast, dinner, and battle detritus. Carefully setting the new technology on the counter, where once the old one had stood, he took his time plugging the cord into the wall, feeling the creation become alive under his hands. He felt powerful, but benevolently so. With this device, he could theoretically poison them all with radiation or some unpleasant wave that was better confined to within the machine. Or, if he so chose, he could feed the hungry and righteous masses more efficiently, soothing bellies that rumbled in the wake of pursuing the good fight. Plus, Mexico didn't cater to much in the way of movie-butter popcorn.

With deliberate motions, Andrew pulled out the glass microwave plate and the pronged piece of plastic that held the plate in place, pulling them out of their plastic sheaths and consulting his manual.

_In small ways, one begins to fight back fear._

Pulling off the plastic wrap that bound the microwave, Andrew pressed the button that freed the door. For good measure, he closed it, hearing the latch close with a satisfying mechanical sound, testing the machine's reflexes.

_He could now remember the exact sequence of events that led up the Cardassian rebellion from the Dominion, the unlikely heroism of Damar, who reformed himself into something far better than the drunken puppet he'd once been. In Mexico, he fretted because he was certain that he had forgotten the plotlines of the last two seasons of The X-Files, though Jonathan assured him time and again that those were memories he could stand to be without. Andrew wasn't certain he agreed, but the point was moot now, because he remembered them._

He had to set the plastic prong on the inside, for the microwave plate to turn upon. Realizing that he didn't have a Phillips screwdriver, he walked into the living room, calling loudly for the location of Xander's home tool belt. Kennedy, busy nuzzling Willow's throat while the witch made notes from an ancient tome, jerked a thumb towards the hall closet.

_He and Jonathan had gorged on American fast food when they crossed back over the border, paying for it several hours later, but he remembered the rush his body felt at the first beautiful bite into a juicy chicken nugget with barbecue sauce, the McFlurry with bits of M&Ms in it. He's not a leader, like Buffy. He has no great powers like Willow (at least, no great powers for the force of good). He's not a fighter, like Spike of the rippling arm muscles and sad, sweet smile…stop that. But he has a certain finesse with cooking, so his contribution to the fight is culinary in nature. And if he happened to get pulled into some fantastic adventures and fights now and again, like Neelix, so much the better. He keeps a cross in his back pocket for this eventual occurrence…_

Insert the plastic dish holder into socket A, line the circumference of the hollow hole with the washer, and screw the plastic screw into the socket. Andrew did so dutifully, imitating the movements of Xander's hands when he used the screwdriver in household repairs.

_Most people had a stop-start, jerky motion when using tools. Not Xander, who used tools with a fluidity borne of long practice that fascinated Andrew. He couldn't hope to imitate Buffy, who was endowed with supernatural powers, who made an effort not to stray from her rigid moral code as far as he knew - despite Tucker's tales, there was much of the Slayer's past he was unaware of. No, it was Spike who he related to, what with the dark past and all, and Xander that he aspired to. But maybe with a superpower. Maybe X-ray vision? Invisibility and rocket-powered flight are beyond his capabilities, and he's shown no sign of mutant capabilities whatsoever._

Also beyond his capabilities are the mechanics of the microwave. Luckily, the microwave is very user-friendly, and even comes with a helpful guide to get the most out of the new machine. Andrew pulls out one of Dawn's highlighters to check off what would be important to know, to remember. Defrosting frozen meats will be helpful with all the potentials about, as will the exact elapsing of time when he tries to heat up popcorn and not burn it. Maybe he should make a test batch…

"_You bake too much," Kennedy remarked yesterday morning, as he pulled a batch of blueberry muffins out of the oven. "We're going to need that money for real supplies and weapons." He couldn't completely argue with her there. Blueberry muffin mix, along with eggs and milk and butter, cost a lot more than a dozen pre-baked muffins from the store. "But these smell so much better!" Amanda broke in as she breezed into the kitchen, long features pulled in an expression of pleasure. "That's got to be good for morale." She turned to him with a faintly pleading expression. "Can I have one?" Generously, Andrew split one muffin, putting a pat of butter on the inside before handing it over to Amanda, treasuring the friendliness/acceptance/gratitude in her eyes. Not since Jonathan…he broke away from that line of thought, looking at Kennedy in triumph. "An army marches on its stomach."_

Realizing that a clock in the kitchen would come in handy, he flips to that page, reading aloud to himself in the relative quiet of the Summers household. Then the low, false sound of Jonathan's voice reaches his ears, and Andrew feels the sucking draw of fear well up all over again…

"That's my friend."

And with that, Jonathan/the First winks out of the kitchen.

Fear clenches his stomach, and Andrew feels more ill than he has in a while. He heard the plan through - what good would it do him to run, the First would just corner him when he was asleep, or urinating, and he'd have to go through this again. Would the First leave him alone if he did its bidding? The wicked thought streaks through his mind before he pushes it away, and moves to clean up the kitchen.

Shaking, Andrew kneels to pick up the discarded plastic wrap and styrafoam, tucking them into the empty box. Chiding himself for the stupidity of leaving a knife on the ground, it's in his hand before he realizes whose knife it is.

A closer look, before he drops it with a clatter. There are some things he is not ready to remember.

He flexes his hands, steadying them, before snatching up the knife and tossing like a dead rat into the silverware drawer.

_Sometimes it's the big things that one does to fight back fear_.


	3. School Hard

"School Hard"

Based on a throwaway line from "Selfless." Set at some point between 'Villans' and 'Two to Go.'

* * *

It was exam week at the University of California at Sunnydale, and everywhere, students moved furtively across campus, faces pulled in expressions of consternation. Others murmured to themselves, repeating formulas, equations, dates, theories. Trash bins were lined with the empty cups and bottles of caffeinated beverages, and the occasional harsh word about equal time in the computer lab was exchanged.

All of it was normal of course, and not just in Sunnydale, which was saying something.

What wasn't normal, however, were a few scattered instances in various classrooms over exam week. In Professor Tamworth's exam for her advanced physics class, only thirty students showed up. This was noticeable in the professor's eyes chiefly because the girl always sat front and center, quite possibly _born _with her hand in the air.

As the exams began, Professor Tamworth began to worry that her favorite student was backsliding into her mid-term slump. Five minutes ticked away on the clock while she played a round of solitaire on her computer and kept a weather eye out for wandering gazes.

There was something that the professors called the "exam symphony," the muted noises of scratching pencils, flipping pages, coughs, the squeaks of sneakers, and the sweetest noise to some, a quickly stifled whimper.

_Click. Click._

At first, Professor Tamworth believed it only to be the mouse on her desktop acting up.

_Click. Click_.

That was odd. She looked around the classroom, trying to identify the source. Some new cheating device, perhaps?

_Click. Click._

She'd read the reports about cameras hidden in ties, graphing calculators strapped to the thighs of skirted girls. Surely a cheating device would be more discreet than this.

_Click. Click._

She gave the classroom a once-over, but nothing seem amiss. Two of the students nearest her desk looked up, distracted by the noise. Tilting her head, the professor could hear it coming from the front corner of the classroom, near the window.

_Click. Click._

She got up to investigate, but the corner was bare. Dusty, but bare. A rush of cold air blew past her, and rubbing her chilled arms, Professor Tamworth looked around for an air conditioning vent - perhaps the source of the noise? But no, the air conditioners were on the other side of the classroom. Strange.

She waited, listening, but the clicking had stopped. Looking around, she noticed that several of the students were watching her in confusion. Embarrassed, she shook her head at them, and returned to her desk.

The key to her exam was open on the computer - which was strange, because she was certain she'd closed it down into its folder. No one in the classroom could have sneaked a peek while her back was turned - as intently as she'd been listening, no one could have stepped up and clicked with the mouse to open the folder.

Professor Tamworth's eyes shifted from side to side, then she decisively closed the key document. Instantly, a small box flashed a number at the top of her toolbar - a new message. She clicked on it - noting the difference in sound - and quickly read the message.

It was an urgent message from the chancellor requesting her presence in his office, regardless of any exam she might be administering at the moment. For what purpose, it did not say. She examined the address bar, wondering if the chairs of the other departments had been called to this impromptu meeting, but no, it seemed she was the only one.

It was near the end of the day, and Professor Tamworth knew that there wasn't anyone left in the building, not a TA, not another professor that wasn't already administering their own exam. She puffed her cheeks, and blew out a breath.

"Excuse me, class," she called out, standing up from her chair. A few students broke away from their exams with pleading looks on their faces. "I've just been called away to an urgent meeting. I apologize for leaving you in the lurch like this - so before I leave, I'd like you to look over the rest of the questions and see if you have any questions on the wording." She paused, making eye contact with every last student. "I also don't need to remind you that cheating only hurts you. When you're at another advanced level, or heaven forbid, in your job, and can't calculate the proper torque, you'll really wish that you had repeated this class."

Packing her satchel with her belongings, she put a lock on the computer folder with her test key inside, fielding a few questions from students who were looking over the rest of the test. Slinging her satchel over her shoulder, she wished them all good luck and walked out the door.

Ten minutes later, she was sitting in the waiting room in the chancellor's office, curious as to why she'd been kept waiting.

A door opened, and Professor Tamworth rose to her feet, seeing the consternated look on the hard planes of the chancellor's face - face lift? - she wondered irrelevantly.

"Hello, Professor Tamworth, always a pleasure to see you," he said in brisk tones, reaching out to briefly clasp her hand in his practiced grip. "What seems to be so urgent? Anything to do with your exams? Budget season?"

Professor Tamworth's mouth worked a bit in confusion. "But…but you sent me an e-mail, just ten minutes ago…I assumed you were going to tell me what was urgent."

The chancellor knitted his brow. "No - are you sure it was from me? There's a professor with my last name, new, in the music department."

"Fairly certain," the professor shot back with confidence. "You've e-mailed all the chairs a few times with news on grants. I recognized it."

"That's strange," the chancellor conceded, shaking his head. "But no, I haven't sent you anything in the past week or so. Good seeing you, though." And with that, he was off and running towards his office.

Professor Tamworth slowly turned around, wondering. Finding the nearest computer lab, she squeezed into the last available terminal and opened her e-mail account.

Aside from an assortment of spam telling her how to make her penis longer and showing her an assortment of saleable (and totally legitimate) watches for sale, there was nothing.

Ghost in the machine? She grimaced, rubbed her eyes, and decided to get back to the classroom. When she arrived, all but two students have finished, and left their exams in a sloppy pile on her desk. Waiting for her e-mail to open back up, she reflexively straightened the pile and began looking over the tests for preliminary idea on how the class did.

Good, good, okay, not okay, okay, okay, terrible, terrible, stunning - Willow?

On an exam in the middle of the pile, Willow Rosenburg's name is printed neatly in graphite at the top of the page. She looked up, but only saw one of the students bringing their exam up in a daze of relief.

"Thank you, Joey. Tell me, did you see Willow Rosenburg come in after I left?" she questioned directly.

The boy blinked, obviously not up to any more questions today. "I…I think so," he said uncertainly. "I kinda wasn't paying much attention…"

"That's all right, Joey. Have a good summer, and I'll see you in the fall. How are you progressing on that internship?" she asked. Too many phrases at once, she sighed internally to herself.

The boy blinked, not up to this barrage of words. "It's confirmed. I'll be at Penn State this time next month," he smiled uncertainly.

"Excellent. Congratulations."

"Thank you," he mumbled.

"Now go get some sleep," she said, and finally found that hint of a genuine smile in his boyish features.

Professor Tamworth turned back to her computer, looking at her e-mail. Nothing, again. How very, very odd, she thought, as the last student turned in their test and left the room. She sat alone in the empty classroom, wondering.

Elsewhere, the world begins to end.

* * *

There's a large pile of mail waiting for Willow when she gets back - mostly credit card offers and her bank statements.

But there is a thick packet from UC-Sunnydale, and she tears it open, feeling happy that she could get excited about something again. Something good, she hoped. Flipping through the pages, humming happily to herself as they all read A+, A+, A+, A+, A+, A+.

But now that she thinks about it, she can't remember taking those exams. She might have been evil, but she wasn't crazy. Her priorities were straight - big things first, and now that magic is a bigger thing in her life than schoolwork…

_Oh._

Now she remembers. She also cringes a bit, for this is proof positive that no matter how evil she was, she was still Willow. Still the girl that would risk hell and high water to complete her studies - even if she is the one bringing on the hell and high water, and has to do schoolwork long-distance.

Essentially, it came down to four simple words:

School **hard**.

Magic _easy_.


	4. Go Fish

"Go Fish"

Rated G, takes place between Seasons 5 and 6.

* * *

"Raise you three," Spike said, tossing three pennies into the pile. 

"You're bluffing," Dawn accused, looking at him over the top of her hand of cards.

His face was perfectly blank, not a muscle twitching in his face, eyes placid and blank. One might have thought he was dead...moreso. Was he hiding a royal flush, or nothing?

"You tell me, Bit," he replied enigmatically.

She pouted a little, staring at her own meager hand - only a single pair.

"I don't see the point of it," she said disgustedly. "We're not playing for a lot of money, and the hands we've been dealt could both suck."

Spike nodded once, expression never changing. "Exactly. Don't matter if we're playing for pennies or millions, if you're got a royal flush or nothing. Play to win."

"Now," he continued. "Gonna see my bet and raise me?"

Dawn perused his face once more. What did that blank stare mean? She looked once more at her cards, then turned them over, slapping them facedown on the dining room table. "I fold."

With slow relish, the vampire showed her his cards. Not a damn pair in the entire hand.

With an inarticulate "_arrrrgggh_!" of rage, Dawn threw up her hands. "I give up! I'm just too _honest_ for this."

"Which is why you asked _me_ to teach you the fine art of bluffing after you mastered cheating," Spike said confidently, reaching across the table to take her cards and reshuffle them. "Key's in the poker face. You were givin' me all sorts of signs you weren't confident in your hand. Got to be cool, calm. Play poker like James Bond would play poker."

He slid the deck over to her, indicating she should deal. With a suppressed groan, she did so. "James Bond isn't blond," she needled him.

"Neither am I," Spike said easily. "My hair color's about as natural as the glare coming off your shiny, shiny head."

They lapsed into silence, studying their new hands intently.

The sound of the back door opening and a footstep in the hall made her jump. Dawn's eyes widened - she knew just playing poker (to say nothing of cheating at it) was one of those taboo subjects not for her innocent eyes and ears.

Quick as a flash, almost faster than she could see, Spike rearranged the cards on the table, palming the pennies.

"Go fish," he said, cool as something that was so far beyond a cucumber. He took two cards from his hand, and placed them face-up on the table. Dawn gaped at him a moment before Xander's tread into the kitchen forced her to play along.

"Hmm…" she murmured, keeping her eyes fixed on her hand. If she looked at Spike, she knew she would lose it.

"Evening," Xander said, coming into the dining room. "You know Go Fish?" he asked Spike, studying the table with doubting eyes.

"Been around over a hundred years. You'd be surprised what I know," Spike said cryptically.

"He's not teaching any of the other stuff, is he Dawn?" Xander asked, leaning on the table with both palms, studying their game intently.

"One, I already _know_ Go Fish. Two, no, he's not. Three, the pudding popsicles are in the freezer," Dawn lied, hoping that her voice was laced with enough teenage irritation to be convincing.

"Excellent!" He spun around and went eagerly to the kitchen.

The chipped vampire and the human Key exchanged looks as they heard the freezer door open and the crinkle of plastic wrapping. Dawn mimed a _phew_ with her hands. Spike gestured at her cards.

"Pair of spades?" she queried tentatively. Dawn didn't know how to play Go Fish.

Spike shrugged, and she wondered if he knew the game, either.

"Any calls?" Xander yelled from the kitchen.

"Anya. Said somethin' about invitations?" Spike drawled out the corner of his mouth.

Almost immediately, booted feet started pounding out of the kitchen towards them.

"We're...Anya was thinking about picking the Fourth of July as her birthday - since all she can remember about her first birthday was that it was in summer, and you know the birth of the nation, capitalism and apple pie, rah-rah and all that..."

Xander-babble meant that he was nervous and hiding something, but Dawn wasn't sure about what.

"...so I've got to run and make sure she knows that she'd get free fireworks..." There was a brief, deer-in-the-headlights look before rational thought asserted itself. "Will you be okay with him, Dawn?"

She sighed, for the first time really and truly irritated. "I've _been _fine for the past three hours," she replied testily.

"Right. Night, then." The door slammed shut behind him.

Dawn tossed her cards down on the table in disgust, for the second time that night. She looked up, expecting to see Spike's poker face.

Instead, his lips curved in the first almost-smile she'd seen on him in nearly two months. His eyes fairly glittered with pride.

"Now that, Bit, was a true bluff," he said, gathering up her cards and reshuffling them.

It should have made her feel better, but all she could summon up was a vague frustration with Xander. "Wish he'd stop that," she muttered.

"Nah," he rejoined, starting to deal the cards again. "Get you trained up enough, and you'll take his paycheck fair and square. Then you and I can hit Vegas and really clean 'em out."

Dawn's lip curled, in spite of her melancholy. "I'm underage," she pointed out. "They'd toss me into the kid's room."

"And I'm over 120," he reasoned, dealing her another card. "Fortunately, fake IDs aren't just for the young."

Dawn cocked her head, contemplating her hand. "I suppose this is one of those things that Xander doesn't want you teaching me."

Casually, he tossed five pennies into the center of the table, lifting an eyebrow at her, poker face back in place.

"You tell me, Bit."


	5. Phases

"Phases"

Dawn POV, set sometime in Season Seven, after "Potential" but before "Lies My Parents Told Me"

* * *

Dawn's a 'huggy' type of girl. She never likes to think of it in those terms - too close to a brand name that would so completely ruin any social standing she ever had. 'Physically effusive' is also out, because of all the lewd and violent connotations that the word 'physical' has had to shield.

Simply, she likes to hug and be hugged, to touch and be touched. And that doesn't happen so much anymore.

With the absence of her mother, Dawn feels it most keenly now. She's something of a mamma's girl, gravitating magnetically towards her mother's petting or snuggles. But her mother is gone now, and the house, once the 'just us girls' house, is filled with strangers who routinely sleep and heal in her mother's bed and make out where her mother died.

The potentials aren't much for hugs, and Dawn's rather afraid that a hug from Kennedy would leave a knife in her back, so she stays away. (_Kennedy saves her touch only for those she has designs on_) Amanda's different, but she's on a strict schedule - class, chorus, and slaying training. Little time for chit-chat...but maybe someday, they'll get a class together and be able to have the same homework assignments.

Giles, attempting to herd the potentials into some sort of fighting group, rarely sees her any more. A pseudo-father when she needed one and the best male role model she thinks she could have. Dad hasn't been by in a while, but she could identify Giles by his scent (_a little musty and old, but with a hint of some light cologne clinging to his shirts_), and by the way his awkward pose in her impulsive embrace quickly fades into a strong surety that this is where he belongs. Her chin in his hand, dark eyes trying hard to look into the inner turmoil of a former blob of energy/teenage girl with a boatload of angst beyond the erupting pimple on her neck.

And yet she wasn't daughter enough to make him stay after Buffy left, and deep down, she wondered if he secretly resented her. Once he broke with Buffy, and the Magic Box was destroyed, Dawn feared that she would never see him again. Now she fears he won't stay.

Anya only hugs when she's feeling very emotional herself, very high or very low. Dawn wonders if this is an ex-demon thing or just an Anya thing. There is a desire to help others from the woman, just problems in translation sometimes.

The day of Buffy's death, after Xander brought Anya to the Summers house at her insistence, Dawn silently walked into her mother's old bedroom, where Anya lay on the bed, pretty brow drawn up with stitches and tears. Seeing Dawn, she silently (_amazingly!_) opened her arms, and Dawn gratefully slid into them, weeping quietly.

There isn't a great deal of emotion issuing from Anya these days, but that's okay. Like Spike and Tara, she's stayed despite the disappointment. Perhaps she'll be up for a quick hug every once and a while, when she finally shakes the dust of Xander off her shoes.

Dawn once longed for the touch of Xander, soft-colored fantasies that never strayed beyond PG (much). He was older, friendly, funny, and had a smile that made her stomach drop up and down. A hand on her head or pressing on her shoulderblades as he guided her along, and she could feel every ounce of concentration in her body fade to the very cells his hand pressed against.

The intensity faded, and she's not sure when - was it before or after she found out she was the Key? She wonders if he knows that she crushed on him, and hopes she didn't come across as too obvious. Now that he's kissed her forehead, she realized that there was no expected electric tingling in her toes. But she still liked it. Xander said that he sees her struggle - does anyone else? (_Of course not, freakishness is the norm in this town_)

Xander's very busy, what with work and research and babysitting Potentials that act half their age, so she doesn't ask him for a parting kiss on the head before he leaves. She still hopes, however, that one will be given, and she can settle those feelings that still stir in her belly.

Also in the air? Her relationship with Willow. Once the coolest girl she knew, who could fit slaying and a boyfriend (and later, girlfriend) into a rigorous academic schedule without becoming stuffy. Even 'Recovering Junkie' Willow, who endangered her and got her arm broken was forgivable, reachable, and touchable.

Last year, during Hanukkah (_or is it Chanukah? Not certain which is right, or if they're really the same thing, come to think of it - got to look that up_), Dawn realized that she wasn't lighting the candles. Using some of her dwindling gift funds, Dawn found a cheap menorah and some tea lights, and, knocking softly and entering Willow's room. She knew Willow wasn't supposed to be near candles, and hoped she wasn't cruel by asking if Willow wanted to light the final one. She said as much.

"Would you light it for me?" came the soft request, and Dawn complies, lighting it from the _shamash._ She didn't know the blessings, and since she isn't Jewish she supposed it was probably less sacrilegious that way. Willow hugged her then, once the candles were safely blown out, taking care not to squeeze her broken arm. The parts she does hug, however, are very tightly held, and there is apology and a plea for acceptance in her grip, and so Dawn returns it as best she can. (_Hanukkah means 'rededication,' doesn't it? A new start? Willow?_)

Nowadays, Willow's new start involves control, support from Xander and Buffy, and endless self-flagellation over her 'end-the-world' phase and whether Kennedy counts as moving past Tara's death too quickly while she stares out into space. She's not much for the hugs, not since Tara died.

Tara can never be replaced, not in Dawn's mind. Warm, endlessly patient, always interested, always loving, and always in motion. Had Tara lived long enough to consider adoption - or artificial insemination (_ew!_), Dawn would gladly have offered herself up as an example of Tara's parenting skills.

Whether it was an embrace to absorb her tears or an arm looped through her own as they went to beg forgiveness for Dawn's absence for the last few days of school, Tara was the soft wraith at her side. Always there, always with a wry comment to follow the right thing to do. And she loved the fact that Tara was there because Tara wanted to be with her, and not just as an accessory to Willow or Buffy.

Dawn remembers all too well what Tara's neck felt like, when she worked up the nerve and swallowed the shock long enough to feel for a pulse. Cold, so cold, not soft and warm and comforting, but stiff, with muscles limp where they shouldn't be and curled where they should not.

Spike is essentially a dead man walking, and on some level, Dawn knows this. Still, it's hard to remember when he's all over the room at once, arguing, pointing, accusing, laughing, strutting, fighting, longing, comforting...plus, touching him is not nearly as bad as dead flesh should be. He's not warm, but he's not a block of ice, either, and the movement and play of his muscles under his skin, even when in breathless sleep gives the lie to his state.

He tried to comfort her several times before Buffy died, and she knows he thinks she doesn't know (_and it's just those types of long explanations and logic that any type of talking relationship with Spike leads you to_). It's that feeling when you know a body is in close proximity, and know it's about to touch you. Not the heated nearby air, because that isn't so with Spike. It's the simple instinctual knowledge embedded deep in the cells of the body.

Sometimes she felt his hand ghost over her hair, and liked it. Having Spike around was like having a cranky Doberman Pinscher guarding her - in combat, he thinks nothing beyond tearing out the throat of something threatening her, and in the quieter moments, his lean, wiry body offered a world of solid comfort when she put her arms around him and he growled softly that she was safe, that it was okay to grieve and mourn.

She has to be the one making the first move, however. Whether it's fear of rebuffal or fear of Buffy that stays his gentle hands, his body nevertheless strained in an effort to hold himself back. This feature has been sponged away by the soul, and she can't divine if he wants to touch her or not, or feels too ashamed from what happened between him and Buffy. She knows it's not the fear of a burning bed.

The bed that he made with Buffy. Full of rage and bitter disappointment, she confronted him not long after first seeing him. Among the questions she shot at him in her low, slow style, the only one that got a discernable answer was when she asked about the soul.

"Is it worth it? Did you really think getting a soul would impress her enough to touch you again? After what you did?" Her voice trembled, but held steady (_Look at me! Look at your victim!_). Spike lifted his head from where he was slowly banging it against his knees, and she was struck by what she saw there. Spike and William coalesced, tortured, terrified, but sane, if only for a moment or two.

"Touch doesn't make anything real. She taught me that. Person can touch you all they want, all you let them, doesn't mean a bloody thing. Doesn't mean you matter to them, or they care. Blood and action, only things that really count for much." He swallowed, looking down. "And maybe this soul."

And just like that, Dawn began to suspect that Buffy had given her a lopsided view of what her relationship with Spike had been. But Buffy's always been her protector, her teacher, guardian of all that's true and good.

Those last few years in L.A., before the move to Sunnydale, when their parents' arguments would pierce the walls of the house, Dawn would scrunch up in a ball on her bed, waiting. Buffy tried as much as possible to sleep over at friends' houses on the weekends, but on school nights, she would tiptoe into Dawn's room.

When the door opened and a shaft of light from the hallway glided in, Dawn would look over with relief at Buffy's blonde head (_too young for hair dye - why? you're away too much to remember what your daughter's face looks like?_) poking into her bedroom.

"Could I borrow a kitty-cat?" she would whisper loudly, and Dawn is up like a shot.

She grabbed Estrella, her favorite blue-and-yellow starred plush bear, and tucked the others into her arms. Buffy took the remainder of the stuffed animals, and they tiptoed down the hall to Buffy's room, trying not to hear what was being quietly shouted at the end of the hall. (_Secretary? That's rich - when do secretaries fly with their bosses to New York?_)

Flipping over a corner of her rumpled white comforter, Buffy climbed back into still-warm sheets, and Dawn followed. There were a few minutes in which they would arrange themselves, spooning to some extent, Mr. Gordo pressed behind Buffy, Estrella under Dawn's arm. The menagerie of other assorted stuffed animals is also tucked under the covers, and if Dawn imagined hard enough, they were pressing back comfortingly against her side.

Buffy reached over and flicked off her bedside lamp, and the glow-in-the-dark stars pasted to her ceiling sprang to life before Dawn's eyes in fluorescent glory, where she lay nestled with her sister, warm and snug and safe. The hand traveled down into Dawn's silky hair, combing it with perfectly pink polished nails that scratched pleasantly along her scalp.

"Purr, kitty-cat." And Dawn did, setting them both to giggling, because when she tried to purr it sounded like an awful attempt at rolling her r's in an affected Spanish accent. And Buffy would concentrate her scratching right behind Dawn's ear, tickling her and making her giggle.

Later on, though, the fighting spread up the hall, making the sisters moody, adolescent standards of coolness making them irritated at their own clinginess. The night the divorce was announced, Dawn crept of her own volition into Buffy's sleepless bedroom, where both girls clung to each other, weeping.

Trying to get to her sister after that became a challenge, for Buffy often tossed and turned in the grip of what had to be terrible nightmares, and Dawn hung back for fear that she would be on the wrong side of a flailing, sweating limb. Soon enough, though, all that latent violence was channeled, Buffy set fire to the school gymnasium, and Dawn was left trying to figure out who or what her sister had become as they fled to Sunnydale.

They weren't much on physical contact in the ensuing years - a brief hug when Dawn had been rescued from an incipient vampire or demon scheme, a swat to the head when she took advantage of her sister's distracted behavior.

When Mom got sick, all that changed, and suddenly she became the willing kitty-cat, bending her lanky form in pretzels against the hard plastic hospital chairs in order to rest her head on Buffy's lap. There was a final kiss on the forehead before Buffy leaped to her death. The ultimate act of proving that she is real, Dawn supposes, at least by Spike's standards.

Since then, it's been tentative between them. Light touch on her forearms, (_don't run away, don't leave me again_). Most of the others were oblivious, but Dawn had clued in that something was wrong long before she almost became a demon's child-bride. After that, Buffy was hard to pin down, and time spent with her little sister was more a chore. Plus, she smelled like greasy meat, although on some level Dawn knew that this was for her and that the smell was an unfortunate side effect that was best unmentioned.

After Buffy's revelation, declaring to Dawn that she wanted to show her the world, Dawn waited. And waited. And waited. The heck with the world, she'd just be glad to see her sister again, and not this speechifying general that has taken up residence. Every attempt she makes has been pushed away, brushed off.

It's just a phase, she keeps telling herself. Once this Big Bad is dead and gone, she'll have her sister back, and they will hug again. After all, the teenage counseling books that Buffy agonized through in the fall all spoke of phases, periods of adjustment to new situations, times that people should be sympathized with and helped through.

Well, Buffy's had almost two years to adjust to resurrection. And Dawn's type of phase kind of runs more towards the 'now you're a ball of mystical green energy, now you're an adolescent Californian,' with precious little adjust time besides the fake memories of touch in her head.

It's why she yearns to be touched now. By Buffy. By _anybody_ she knows and cares about. And prays that Spike was wrong.

_Show me I'm real. I'm real to you._

* * *

Author's Note: I have absolutely nothing against Dobermans, and have known and loved several - it just seemed a good analogy. Plus, pit bulls and Rotties take it on the chin enough as it is. 


	6. Reptile Boy

"Reptile Boy"

Takes place at some point after "Get it Done," but prior to "Dirty Girls."

Rated: PG

A/N: This story was begun at some point last year after the death of a TV personality that I and so many others loved. If isn't already clear who that is, it should be by story's end.

* * *

The California spring announced itself with persistent showers, and thus a thick mist clouded the well-manicured graveyard, chilling the frightened visitors to the bone.

Somewhere, a hawk-owl called out softly from the pine forest, as if it, too, feared to alarm the creature stirring at the edge of the trees.

Wide, flat feet helped the creature move quietly over the ground, its gleaming scales dripping condensation onto the pine needles. Four curling horns protruded from its square head, molded into a perfect and lethal bayonet. In size, the beast was only as large as a burro, but large claws protruding from the overlapping bronze scales of its feet only served to increase its menace.

The creature turned at a noise from the group of girls walking amongst the tombstones, oval golden eyes focusing on their frightened faces. Curling its lip to snort its pig-like nose at them, the creature inadvertently revealed the white gleam of large, strong teeth.

"It's a Stirwin demon. Big one," Spike commented to the group of Potentials, looking off toward the pines, where the demon in question had gone back to digging under a tree. "Isn't he a beauty?"

"I suppose that depends on whether you define beauty as scaly and horny," quipped Xander from his position, flanking the group of fifteen or so slayers-in-training. "Well, maybe horny," he finished in a quiet aside to himself.

"Look at the size of those horns," Buffy answered, coming forward to a position to face the girls. "Twenty years, at least. And one-two-three-four basal ones means he's a he. I think he's new in town." She leaned one hip up against a gravestone, assuming a casual pose, glancing back to check the demon's position. Clearly, it was ignoring them to the best of its ability, nosing its way into the earth and snuffling. "Probably following the rising stench of Hellmouth activity."

"_My_ Watcher never mentioned Stirwin demons," Kennedy called out from the front of the group. "How do we kill them?"

"Is he digging up a dead body?" squealed the new girl from Florida. For the life of her, Buffy couldn't remember the girl's name. Rose? Violet? She had the vague feeling the girl was named after a flower. Being from Florida, could she be Flora? Spotting the cartoon alligator on the girl's shirt, Buffy decided to go with "Allie."

"No. Being a Stirwin demon, it doesn't like decaying meat. Prefers…tougher delicacies. And besides, he's not digging at a gravestone." From the corner of her eye, she saw Spike's mouth quirk, Xander look down with a small smile. Catching the confused look on Pilar's face, she quickly consulted the yellow handbook in her jacket pocket.

"El demonio esta un Stirwin demonio. El no come carne…decayendo?" Buffy prayed that she hadn't gotten this one wrong. "La _punta_ de entrar," referring to the heart of a vampire, when said incorrectly, became "La _puta_ de entrar." It took thirty more minutes of broken Spanish to convince Pilar not to flee the house, or call the cops in whatever broken English she could muster.

Pilar nodded in understanding, and Buffy sighed in relief and prayed to whatever deity was listening to not send her any Potentials that spoke a language unlisted in the local Barnes and Noble language section.

"He's kind of like an armadillo," said Amanda, a bit wistfully. "An armadillo with horns. Do we have to kill him?"

"So how do we kill it?" Rona took up Kennedy's line with a toss of her cornrows, the question of whether she heard Amanda debatable. "I'm all for something that's long distance. He looks like he smells."

Buffy smiled, and immediately she saw the more experienced of the group pull back a bit, expecting a nasty surprise.

"We're not going to kill him." A murmur rose in the group, but Buffy ignored it for the moment in favor of fulfilling her forgotten requirement. She consulted her dictionary. "Nosotros no matamos el Stirwin demonio." Close enough.

"Por que?" came the thin response.

"But it's a demon," said Rona. "Isn't that kind of, like, our purpose? As in, Slayers?"

Buffy shook her head with a smile. "Our purpose, as Slayers, is to preserve human life from vampires and other demon-related mischief." She began to pace a bit, with the affected casual walk she'd adopted. "Don't let it fool you, as a Slayer, your purpose is death. It's what we do. But we're not mindless killing machines. We don't kill without reason. And that reason is whether it will seek out and harm humans."

"The Stirwin demon," she continued, gesturing back at the olive-furred creature, "doesn't go after humans unless they're trying to go after it. Also, they don't speak, so we can't really ask it to come over and say hello. It's also…ovoviparous." Was that right?

"Well, yes, it's that, and it's also omnivorous," called out Spike, attempting to save face for her. "Feeds mostly on Grot-lak eggs and mushrooms. Given all the rain we've been having, I'd say this fella's looking for mushrooms."

"El demonio esta un vegetariano," supplied Xander. Not quite the truth, but it would suffice.

Buffy took off her jacket, draping it over a nearby tombstone. "Normally, we'd just let this fellow alone and go about our business, but I'd like you to see some of its defenses, and its camouflage, because some of the nasty, human-eating demons have the same thing. Xander, keep the girls back behind this row of tombstones, in case he charges. Spike?"

The vampire rolled his eyes, but shucked his duster all the same, tucking it under an arm with a long-suffering face. Together, they walked quietly over toward the graveyard's edge, doing their best to keep a casual, uninterested front. It didn't work. Long floppy ears pricking, the Stirwin demon didn't raise its head from the burrow, but did stop snuffling, golden eyes focused on them.

"What d'you say, I'll go for the head, you'll get the back?" Spike murmured. Buffy nodded, and they parted, Spike blocking the Stirwin demon's escape into the graveyard, while Buffy closed in from behind.

The creature began to snort, realizing what was about to happen. Too late, for at Spike's nod, Buffy pounced, wrapping both arms around the creature's hindquarters, dragging it down by the hips and getting a faceful of scales in the process. Apparently, bits of filth worked their way between the scales and rotted, so the incident was far from pleasant.

At the same time, Spike went for the demon's head, wrapping the duster around its eyes and getting a firm hold on its horns. Together, as the demon bucked and twisted, they tried to gently wrestle him to the wet earth.

"Hey, hey now. You're all right, you're all right!" Buffy tried to sooth the demon while it pawed helplessly in the air and writhed in a bid for freedom.

"Talkin' to me or the demon, luv?" Spike grunted from where he sat lightly on the withers of the beast, keeping one hand gripped on the demon's horns, the other keeping his duster closed over its eyes, trying to carefully immobilize it.

"Forgot they smelled like this," Buffy moaned, holding the demon's hind legs together to keep him from kicking, deflatedly realizing she was wearing the pair of kicky khakis she'd sworn not to get grass stains or demon guts on. "Been so long since I've come near any of them."

A few more thrashings, and the Stirwin beast lay still, defeated for the moment. Being careful to keep the pressure on the demon, Buffy shifted into a more comfortable position and motioned with a jerk of her head for Xander to lead the girls forward. Gingerly they did so, those in front clapping hands over pinched mouths and wrinkled noses.

"Oh, God, that reeks!" and assorted variations thereof echoed throughout the group.

"Keep your voices down, girls," Spike ordered, "We're trying to keep him as relaxed as possible. He's a wee bit grumpy."

As if to prove a point, the demon jerked its head up, sending one sharp antler up to slice open a long cut along Spike's jawline.

If the girls had been expecting some show of short vampire tempers, they didn't get one. Instead, a rippling laugh like machine-gun fire rolled out of Spike's throat.

"Isn't he a beauty? This one's got a sense of humor!" he gruffed, tightening his grip on the beast nonetheless and forcing its head to the ground, heedless of the blood starting to trace down his throat.

Buffy tried to regain control of the lesson, glancing around for a good victim. "Kennedy! Come over here and place your hand on his side."

Manicured brows rose in disgust. "No way! That thing smells like it's been dead for months."

Buffy's eyes narrowed. "Kennedy, fighting demons means that you get up, close, and personal with them. You can always wash up after patrol."

Grimacing, Kennedy came forward, waiting until Buffy and Spike had controlled the beast's renewed and twisting struggle before gingerly placing her hand on its scaly hide.

A moment passed.

"See? Nothing happened when Kennedy put her hand on it, because he feels threatened by the touch of another. Now, Kennedy, pull up a handful of grass and sprinkle that on him," Buffy instructed.

Grass clippings fell on the gleaming bronze scales of the Stirwin demon before disappearing, as the demon's scales faded into shades of variegated green and yellow. The bits of grass were definable only by their texture and depth, so complete was the transformation.

"He's like a big chameleon!" breathed Amanda.

"Exactly." Buffy smiled at her in teacher's triumph. "That's why they only venture out into mowed lawns like these when they see mushrooms or something else. They have to be in the cover of grass or woods to do something. Spike, if you could lift up a corner of your coat?"

Readjusting his grip carefully, Spike lifted the lapel covering the demon's neck with a crooked pinky. Underneath, the scales had the dark malevolent gleam of his leather duster.

"And that's all he'd better take with him," the vampire growled.

"If you guys don't mind holding him down, I think I've got a paisley shirt back home that I'd like to try..." Xander began, but subsided at the glare from Buffy as the demon twisted and bucked its legs, breather over.

"Demons can be anywhere, at anytime, and they're usually very well adapted to concealing themselves. It's nature's way," continued Buffy. "Moral of the story? Always be on the lookout. You never know exactly where a hotspot of activity might be."

"Thought we already took them to Willy's," Spike muttered, averting his eyes before Buffy could give him the same glare.

A nod from Buffy, and all the Potentials backed away, guarded by an ax-toting Xander. Hearing the retreat of the crowd, the Stirwin demon tensed under Buffy's grip, waiting a moment of opportunity or the killing blow.

"Count of three?" she murmured. Spike nodded, moving to keep his grip secure while tucking the duster's collar under his thumb.

As one, they released their grips and backed away, Spike whisking his duster away with all the flamboyance of a children's birthday party magician. The demon lay stunned for a fraction of a second before twisting its body in a struggle to get its feet underneath it, before snorting and rearing for the relative safety of the brush.

The group stood in a sort of reverential stillness, listening as the crashing through the wooded area grew fainter, then stopped altogether. Breaking the mood, Spike shook out his duster, sniffing at it and grimacing in disgust before probing the cut along his jaw.

Xander aimed a questioning glance at Buffy, who deflected it, shaking her head. Taking the measure of the group's mood in the sets of small shoulders and glossy pouting lips, he took control.

"History of the World Part I, troops!" he exclaimed, trying for enthusiasm. "Popcorn's on me if you recognize any of the actors besides Mel Brooks. Also, la pelicula muy...chistosa?...tiene...subtitulos, Pilar," he said with a glance toward the girl, who looked immensely relieved.

"Slaying school and real school? At night?" a petulant voice rose from the group.

"I think we have a Mel Brooks virgin!" Xander said, catching the shift in morale. Then - "Oh, wait! I didn't mean for that to be as creepy as it sounded!"

Buffy watched them go, oddly satisfied with the night's lesson, despite the lack of slayage on anyone's part. She turned to watch Spike shake out his duster, but his attention was fixed elsewhere, squinting at something in the distance. Every muscle in her tensed - how could they distract this threat and get the girls to safety?

"What is it?" she whispered, trying to get a better look at what he was staring at, hand reaching for the stake at her waist.

"Hm? Oh, no, no danger," he said hastily, seeing her face. "It's the reason that that demon was so close to the Hellmouth."

Buffy looked in the direction he pointed, and squinted. As carefully as a seal doing a trick, a Stirwin demon was nosing a speckled egg the size of a cantaloupe towards a smaller member of its species. Behind that one, several juveniles rolled in the grass before noticing it and bounding over, batting it between each other like romping kittens.

"There's a missus and sprogs to care for," Spike said quietly.

"I wish more demons were like that," Buffy exhaled, watching the adult beasts nuzzle.

"They are," Spike stated firmly, eyes squarely fixed on the Stirwin demons. "He's got his girl, got his kiddies, got his passion to protect them. Not so much about the soft squishiness as the animal instinct to love and protect." Abruptly he turned and started walking in the direction of the Summers house, carefully not looking back at her.

Buffy watched the little demon family before the ton of bricks hit her.

"Oh!"

She raced to catch up.


End file.
